^ 


EX_L1BKJS  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

SAN  FRANCISCO  <8> 

PRESENTED  ID  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAY 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNERCDMPANY 


I 


\\"W'  * 


Z- 


THE 

SONNETEERING  OF 
PETRARCHINO 


CHICAGO 

WALTER  M.  HILL 

MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  WALTER  M.  HILL,  CHICAGO 


PRINTED  BY  JOHN  HENRY  NASH,  SAN  FRANCISCO 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Hark! 

As  little"  Wolferl" through  old  Salzburg  straying 
And  clambering  some  spidery  stair,  mistaken 
For  his  good  father's,  may  have  found  forsaken 
A  spinet  in  the  dusty  loft  decaying, 
And  with  his  baby  hands  to  sweet  obeying 
Charmed  the  stiff,  yellow  keys  so  long  unshaken 
By  touch  of  fingers,  may  have  made  awaken 
Its  night-numbed  song  to  sun-rise  of  his  playing, 

So  now  a  master  greater  than  Mozart, 
Of  melody  and  harmony  the  lord, 
Would  turn  the  musings  of  my  inmost  elf 
To  singing  strings,  and  of  my  antique  heart 
Fashion  a  quaintly  jangling  harpsichord 
To  play  his  welcome  to  the  Dawn,  yourself. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


July  Night 

The  ravelled  veils  of  salmon  cloud  forsake 
A  sky  of  peacock  blue,  as  fireflies 
With  gay,  inconstant  mimic  improvise 
A  Milky  Way  along  the  bluff.  A  flake    '  f 
Of  late  syringa,  eager  to  o'er  take 
Its  fellow,  falls,  and  on  the  warm  grass  lies 
In  invitation.  Now  the  moon  will  rise, 
Like  a  great  golden  galleon,  from  the  lake. 

Up  in  the  dark  tree  tops  a  fainting  breath 
Stirs  waxen  leaves;  below,  as  soft  as  death, 
Only  the  moth  wings  flutter.  Now  my  hand 
Reaches  for  yours,  and  does  not  understand 
Its  absence,  which  can  turn  so  cruelly 
All  summer's  opulence  to  beggary. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Memories  of  Greece 

From  Lycobettos  still,  in  memory, 
I  can  look  out  above  the  evening  mist 
Beyond  th'  Acropolis  where  yet  persist 
Th'  immortal  violets,  and  farther  see, 
Past  Corinth's  gulf  of  lapis-lazuli, 
Great  Erymanthus,  like  a  Titan's  fist 
Clenched  in  a  glove  of  deepening  amethyst, 
Cellene,  wrapt  in  purple  dignity. 

Since  then  have  many  travellers  from  that  slope 
Watched  the  warm  colours  die  on  Argolis. 
Not  one  remembers  better!  without  hope 
I  always  hoped  to  know  again  in  this 
Plain  world  that  perfed  scene.  After  long  wait, 
I  see  it  in  your  eyes,  regenerate. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Vistas 

Oh  for  some  island,  far  enough  to  balk 

The  curious  voyager,  where  hours  and  days 

And  months  pass  cloudlessly,  whose  shimmering  bays 

No  anchor  ripples;  only  sea  birds  walk 

Its  sunny  sands.  Above  it  nightly  stalk 

Achernar  and  Canopus,  and  their  rays 

Silver  its  beaches.  Silence  there  betrays 

Secrets  too  deep  ever  to  rise  in  talk. 

In  such  a  paradise,  with  years  to  spend, 
I  might  pursue  each  vista,  and  explore 
The  country  of  your  heart  to  its  last  shore 
And  highest  hill,  but  know  that  at  the  end 
There  still  would  lie  in  hiding  from  your  lover 
Some  new  delight  for  him  to  yet  discover. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Long  After  "the  Prince  of  Poets  " 

I  can  not  hope,  like  laurel-crowned  Petrarch, 

To  give  my  love  six  centuries  of  fame, 

Or  weave  such  magic  romance  'round  your  name 

As  he  did,  when  he  lit  against  the  dark 

Of  sleeping  ages,  like  a  little  spark, 

The  song  which  burst  into  a  deathless  flame. 

My  flint  I  strike  with  high  and  eager  aim, 

But  know  that  few  its  tiny  flash  may  mark. 

Enough  for  me,  if,  when  keen,  frosty  age 
O'er  takes  you  on  your  mortal  pilgrimage 
And  drives  you  to  seek  solace  by  the  fire, 
You  then  take  down  this  little  book,  desire 
To  warm  yourself  by  dear,  remembered  times 
And,  glad  I  loved  you,  softly  croon  my  rhymes. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Sun-rising 

• 

Alone  tonight  by  light  of  candle  lean 

I  dream  how  somewhere  now  the  sun  is  making 

Anew  the  day,  his  tangent  radiance  flaking 

A  silver  sea  with  golden  damascene, 

Or  how  above  deep  valleys'  darkling  green 

Some  snowy-cheeked,  unclouded  peak  is  breaking 

Into  high  flame,  when  lover-like  awaking 

Startles  to  rose  her  virginal  demesne. 

And  I  muse  on  how  Love's  sun  freshly  rising 
Ever  discovers  oceans  unexplored, 
Or  Himalayan  mountain  chains,  surprising 
Reludant  beauty  in  their  fastness  stored: 
With  each  advancing  day  he  finds  unfurled 
Some  fairer  landscape  of  your  heart,  my  world. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Midsummer  Nights  Dream 

Such  a  night  sings!  Some  Lydian  shepherd's  song 
Is  by  the  milky  moonlight  softly  trilled 
'Neath  tall  black  trees  in  gray-green  shadows  filled 
With  errant  satellites,  now  led  awrong 
From  pale,  moon-banished  stars.  The  lawn  along 
An  over-flow  of  Heaven  has  been  spilled 
In  stillest  beauty,  from  which  Love 's  distilled 
His  ancient  melody, — sweet,  sanguine,  strong. 

Such  a  night  sings,  and  asks  for  audience 
No  harking  of  the  scholar's  hand-cupped  ear 
That  analyses  sound  but  song  can 't  hear, 
Nor  worldling's  glib,  impertinent  pretense. 
It  wants  but  lovers,  so  I  pray  that  we 
May  be  sometime  its  close-clasped  auditry. 


cn 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Wood-gods 

Old  books  reveal  that  the  deep  woods  near  Treves 
Long  challenged  Christ.  No  zealot  might  disbark 
On  missionary  quest  beyond  that  mark. 
Diana's  followers  there  sought  to  brave 
The  Syrian  cult,  and  in  their  secret  nave 
Of  moss-stained  oaks/ till  days  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
They  flashed  like  fireflies  in  the  early  dark, 
Or  sunny  rocks  against  a  smileless  wave. 

Along  the  Chinese  rivers  travellers  tell 
How  the  wind-worn,  time-twisted  trees  are  spared 
Since  in  their  trunks  ancestral  spirits  dwell, 
As  in  the  grove  about  my  house  seems  snared 
Some  pagan  protestant,  who  makes  renew 
Each  starry  night  my  worshipping  of  you. 

.. 

DO 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Al  Fresco 

Crisp  as  cut  stone,  or  vague  as  faint  perfume, 
Fantastic  clouds  like  Chinese  creatures  old 
And  fabulous,  on  screens  of  lemon  gold, 
People  the  changing  sky.  The  drooping  plume 
Of  one  tall  elm  nods  darkly  at  the  room 
Rimpling  above  it.  From  the  western  wold 
The  tentacles  of  mounting  mists  uphold 
Earth's  plan  to  swallow  heaven  in  its  gloom. 

Before  this  is  a  spacious  table  set 
With  creamy  cloth,  silver,  wine-gilded  glass 
And  candles  flickering  as  the  whispers  pass 
From  field  to  lake.  All  is  inviting,  yet 
Without  your  smile  to  crown  the  carnival, 
My  eyes  see  only  Laughter's  funeral. 
9 

EE 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


To  My  Stone  St.  Hilarion 

You  were,  perhaps,  carved  for  some  straitened  nook 

In  a  steep  arch,  above  the  human  taint 

Entering  beneath  you.  There  your  mute  compkint 

Of  Earth's  misuse,  your  prayer-pinched,  tear-smeared  look 

Summoned  old  sinners  to  the  bell  and  book, 

Inviting  all  to  that  immense  constraint 

Which  seared  your  brow,  proclaiming  you  a  saint 

Who  knew  all  sin  and  each  glad  sin  forsook. 

Pupil  you  were  of  Anthony,  men  say, 

The  Anthony  who  frowned  all  loving  down, 

To  his  eternal,  damnable  renown. 

For  your  apostasy  I  gladly  pay 

Ransom  in  flowers,  trusting  now  you  '11  be 

A  lover's  saint,  new-born  in  charity. 


,0 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Orion 

Confessed  a  comrade  of  the  year's  old  age, 
A  tardy  tippler  at  the  starry  feast, 
Ruddy  Orion  staggers  up  the  east, 
And,  shaking  off  a  summer's  villainage, 
Again  assumes  his  wintry  heritage. 
Aldebaran  and  Altair  have  increased 
Their  light  to  lend  him  honour,  and  the  least, 
Last  comet  owns  his  silent  seignorage. 

Far-flaming  stars,  like  satrap  satellites, 
In  vasty  space  of  crystal  vacancy, 
Make  court  before  his  august  empery, 
Whose  sudden  sun-burst  lightens  and  benights 
The  rest  of  heaven,  as  for  me  your  star 
Dark-lights  the  world,  Love's  final  avatar. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Parthenos 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the  Parthenon 

Was  just  so  perfed  when  it  sparkled  new, 

Fresh  from  the  Phidian  mallet,  when  withdrew 

First  from  its  side  the  builders'  skeleton 

And  bade  astonished  Athens  look  upon 

Its  bright-hued  splendour. — Now  the  winds  imbrue 

Its  beauty  with  eternity,  the  dew 

Paints  it  more  perfed, — dew  and  Attic  sun. 

As  kindly  Time  rounds  the  too  rigid  line 
Of  squared  foundation,  sharply  chiselled  plinth, 
And  warms  to  tenderness  the  chill  above 
Of  pediment  and  fluted  labyrinth, 
So  may  your  beauty  on  itself  refine, 
Perfedion  change  for  perfedness,  through  love. 


12 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


November  Chill 

The  wastrel  wind  scatters  the  legacies 
Of  golden  August's  richly- verdured  nights 
In  soon-spent  leaves;  improvidently  blights 
The  last  unheeded  asters;  soon  will  freeze 
The  pools,  deep-shadowed,  which  the  panoplies 
Of  steely  skies  light  from  inverted  heights, 
Whence  Rigel,  prince  of  Autumn's  proselytes, 
Peers  through  the  tangled  rigging  of  the  trees. 

Half-numb  I  am.  No  spoil  of  fruitful  garth, 
Doubly-distilled,  nor  fraud  of  fond  romance, 
No  noisy  hickory  snapping  on  the  hearth 
From  creeping  cold  vouchsafes  deliverance, 
'Till  your  far  face  recalled  my  blood  unchains 
And  wakes  the  summer  sleeping  in  my  veins. 


13 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Small  Pence 

If  I  could  coin  my  heart's  full  treasury 
Into  the  counters  which  are  common  pay, 
Or  if  the  world's  exchequer  would  assay 
The  honest  bullion  of  my  sympathy, 
And  try  the  riches  of  my  poverty 
With  test  of  acid,  ring,  and  bite  and  weigh 
With  every  scale  that  shortage  might  betray, 
I  know  that  it  must  pass  that  currency. 

But  my  dull  mind  seems  powerless  to  make 
The  gold  to  guilders,  or  to  press  imprint 
Of  face  unless  on  farthings,  is  no  mint 
To  stamp  my  love  in  ducats,  so,  dear,  take 
These  crude,  clipped  coppers  of  my  blunted  wit, 
And  know,  at  least,  they  are  not  counterfeit. 


14 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Day-break 

This  morning  through  my  graying  windows  blow 
Winds  from  the  woods,  my  drowsy  forehead  stroking 
With  damp  caresses  from  a  forest  smoking 
In  exhalations  of  the  melted  snow. 
Down  gurgling  spouts  and  sobbing  gutters  flow 
Streams  to  a  dream  of  summer  brooks  provoking, 
And  from  some  misty  distance  comes  the  croaking 
And  querulous  complaint  of  brother  crow. 

'Tis  winter  yet !  A  mind  so  long  discreet, 
Incredulous,  by  February  thaw 
Or  crow's  profane,  anachronistic  caw 
Surely  should  not  be  tricked,  but  since,  my  Sweet, 
The  thought  of  you  dawns  on  me  with  the  day, 
In  brownest  buds  I  see  the  bloom  of  May. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Ronsard 

I  can  not  think  he  was  but  chanticleer, 
Crowing  the  easy  conquests  of  a  court 
In  careless  stanzas,  chanted  half  in  sport 
And  half  in  hope  his  flattery  might  endear 
To  arching  brows  their  facile  sonneteer. 
Rather  I  mark  the  vital  soul's  import, 
Grave  'neath  the  smiles,  too  candid  to  distort 
To  a  mere  elegance  his  mood  sincere. 

So  I  have  called  him  master  and  have  sung 
My  fondest  songs  feigning  to  follow  him, 
And  longing  that  my  plaintive  lips  rnight  limn 
My  love  in  some  faint  echo  of  his  tongue. 
Taut  are  the  strings  and  tuneful  of  my  heart, 
Could  I  but  pluck  them  with  the  master's  art. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


On  a  Twelfth  Century  Missal 

No  creature  of  a  papal  chancery, 
To  drudgery  conventual  dismissed, 
Conceived  these  characters,  no  copyist 
Flourished  so  freely  and  so  legibly 
These  Latin  lines  of  round  calligraphy: 
Rather  some  transcendental  humanist, 
In  adoration  raised  to  rhapsodist, 
Here  hymned  the  Virgin  in  his  ecstasy. 

Through  Life's  broad  book  he  made  his  pilgrimage, 
Swinging  the  censer  of  a  heart  whose  scent 
To  Heaven  rose  from  his  still  hermitage. 
Oh!  That  to  you  my  hermit  heart's  intent 
May  raise  an  incense  from  this  studied  page 
Fragrant  as  his  sweet-smelling  sacrament. 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Clearing 

The  wind  grown  hoarse  with  shouting  thunderously 
His  savage  song,  and  winding  fanfares  loud, 
Falters  at  last  in  whispers.  Now  unbowed, 
The  regal  oaks  raise  weary  heads  to  see 
What  realm  remains  after  the  anarchy, 
And  stretch  their  arms,  still  unsubdued  and  proud, 
Strongly  to  Heaven,  across  whose  fields,  storm-plowed, 
Race  the  gray  ranks  of  winter's  cavalry. 

The  cloudy  armies  scatter  fast  and  far, 

The  gusty  sighs  diminish,  pause,  and  cease, 

Clear  in  the  east  a  solitary  star 

Signals  the  triumph  and  return  of  peace. 

I  know  it  for  an  omen  to  foretell 

That  lovers'  skies  shall  clear  of  storms  as  well. 


18 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 

The  Centaur— An  Intaglio 

How  shepherds  stared  on  the  Thessalian  plain, 
When  for  one  burnished  moment,  statue-still, 
They  saw  you  drinking  at  the  drowsy  rill ! 
A  snort,  a  stamp,  a  startled  toss  of  mane, 
And  you  were  gone,  a  dappled  hurricane, 
Crashing  o'er  asphodel  and  daffodil 
Until  among  the  laurels  on  the  hill 
Your  quivering  fad:  became  a  myth  again. 

'Twas  Phoebus  sired  you  and  bade  you  be 
Manlike  in  mischief,  even  excelling  them, 
And  from  your  mother,  Hebe,  you'd  no  lack 
Of  license  or  of  mad  audacity. 
Now  do  I  find  you  prisoned  in  this  gem, 
Quite  tamed,  a  tiny  Eros  on  your  back. 


19 


THE  SONNETEERING  OF  PETRARCHINO 


Finale 

If  I  had  sought  to  praise  some  other  face 
Not  perfed:  so  nor  so  with  Love  conspiring, 
And  if  my  hand,  more  temperate  in  desiring, 
Had  tried  some  lesser  loveliness  to  trace, 
Then  from  my  pack  of  wordy  commonpkce 
I  might  have  drawn,  meet  for  my  mood's  requiring, 
Drab,  homespun  phrases  for  the  plain  attiring 
Of  any  other  but  one  lyric  Grace. 

But  I  have  striven  to  pilfer  from  the  birds 
Their  lilt,  and  from  the  stars  I  love  so  well 
Their  choired  song,  in  hope  with  these  to  tell 
A  beauty  past  the  portraiture  of  words. 
And,  having  failed,  I  break  the  lute  in  two 
That  shall  not  sound,  unless  it  honours  you. 


20 


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